Bludhaven, RFD
by SKH
Summary: Crossover between Batman/Nightwing and The Andy Griffith Show
1. Chapter 1

**Bl****ü****dhaven, R.F.D.**

By SKH

©July 2002

Rating: PG13

Characters: Matches Malone, Dick Grayson, Oracle

Disclaimer: Above-mentioned characters are owned by DC Comics.

No profit is realized from creation of stories based on these characters.

Comments and feedback are welcome to

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Blüdhaven Police Department Officer Dick Grayson was seated at a desk in his precinct, impatiently filling out paperwork. He hated the rotation days he and his partner, Sgt. Amy Rohrbach, stayed off the streets in order to process the reams of reports on their caseload.

"Duplicate, triplicate... nothing but a load of bullsh--"

Dick's grousing was interrupted by his pager's silent signal. That pager. He looked at the alphanumeric message and smiled. His mood improved dramatically, Dick picked up the desk phone and dialed a certain, shielded telephone number.

"Hello, gorgeous. You call to tell me you can't live without me?"

"No. Dick, did you file a stolen vehicle report on your car this morning?" Barbara Gordon asked.

Dick's smile vanished, replaced by a pout of disappointment. "Yeah. I came out of my apartment and it was gone. I got it out of the garage last night because I was gonna go to the new Super WalMart. It's kind of difficult to carry 48 rolls of toilet paper on a motorcycle."

There was a pause, and then Barbara said, "I'm... not even going to touch that line."

"You have no idea how much ribbing I got from Amy about it, too. The GPS tracer indicated my car was in North Carolina. I filed my report with the BPD and then called the North Carolina Highway Patrol and gave them the vehicle information. --Why? How did you... or why do you know that?" Dick's voice lowered with suspicion.

"Because I'm Oracle, the divine font of knowledge, blessed by the gods, Dunce-Wonder. I intercepted a call to the BPD from the Mayberry, North Carolina jail. The sheriff there has a suspect in custody for possession of a stolen car."

"And?" Dick asked, really curious now as to why Oracle had intercepted the confirmation of a suspect arrest.

"The suspect in custody is Matches Malone."

Dick held the phone receiver away from his face for a moment, staring at it like he hadn't heard what he just heard. Putting it back to his ear, he tried to keep a straight face while responding to Oracle's revelation.

"Matches Malone?" he repeated, his voice cracking from lost composure on the last name. Dick held the phone away again, this time to double over in laughter. He hooted his amusement for a good half minute before returning to the conversation.

"The one and only," Babs laughed in sympathy. "Oh, wait a sec..."

Barbara put Dick on hold. He listened to the on-hold music, a Burt Bacharach tune from the 1960s. He hummed along, and began tapping his pencil in time to "Do You Know the Way to San Jose?"

"Dick!" Oracle exploded back onto the line. "That was him. He said, and I quote, 'Send him. Now!' and then he hung up. I've got you booked on a flight to Raleigh. Leave now and you can just make it."

"Roger that, gorgeous -- I'm on my way!" Dick slammed the phone down and grabbed his jacket.

"Amy, my car's been recovered... clock me out, I'm going to get it!" Dick shouted over his shoulder on the way out of the bullpen.

Matches Malone reclined on the bunk in one of two cells in the small, rural jail. He tried to ignore the window-rattling snores from the drunk in the next cell. He had made his obligatory phone call, contacting Oracle to send Matches' "son," Robbie Malone to bail him out. Batman's undercover case had gone down well. He had, as Matches, obtained the information he was looking for to crack a cigarette hijacking and resale operation. On the Gotham City end of the operation, a mob dispute had resulted in the deaths of three men, one an innocent bar patron.

He had needed an appropriate car to go with his ruse, and not wanting to awaken Dick Grayson -- who never got enough sleep ever since he took that damned police job -- Batman, or rather Matches, quietly overrode the muscle car's security defenses and drove off to his southern destination.

Matches' thoughts were interrupted by the apnea-explosion from the next cell. The drunk jerked awake and sat up, scratching his stubble and smacking his lips. Matches said nothing, and watched, curious, as the drunk got up and stumbled to the cell door.

"Hey, Barney?" he hollered, his voice gravelly from sleep. "Barney?" When the received no answer to his beckoning, the drunk walked to the corner of the cell, reached his arm through the bars and plucked a ring of keys off a hook.

Matches sat up. The drunk wobbled back to the door, unlocked it, and walked out of his cell, leaving the keys in the lock. He stumbled to a coffee pot on a table across the room, poured himself a cup and drank it down. He then walked down a short hall to the bathroom.

Matches walked over to his cell door and gave it a testing shake. Then he walked to the front corner of his cell and reached through the bars, trying to reach the ring of keys. He hadn't noticed any security cameras in the tiny jail, and the prisoners had been left alone by the short, wiry, overconfident deputy.

The front door opened. Matches drew his arm back through the bars. A small, red-haired boy entered the jail carrying a basket covered with a checkered cloth. The boy eyed Matches carefully as he crossed the room and unlocked the cell next door. He took a plate covered with aluminum foil out of the basket and placed it on the bunk, then left the cell. The sound of the flushing toilet resonated through the room, and the stumbling drunk wandered back to his cell.

"Hey Otis. Aunt Bee sent supper," the boy chirped.

"Hey Opie. Tell Aunt Bee I said thank you," Otis replied, giving the boy a pat on the head.

The boy walked to Matches' cell and took out a second plate. He pushed it through a horizontal slot in the door. "Here you go, Mister," the boy said, patiently holding the plate until Matches took it.

"T'anks kid."

Matches sat on the bunk and uncovered the plate. The fragrance of fried chicken, some kind of peas with whole pods of boiled okra lying across them, potato salad and a fresh baked biscuit with butter and honey wafted invitingly through the air.

"You want some coffee to go with that, Mister?" the boy asked.

"How 'bout a cola?" asked Matches, eyeing the boy through his sunglasses.

"You got fifty cents, Mister?"

Matches reached into his pocket for the coins the deputy had neglected to collect from him. He flipped two quarters through the bars. The boy caught them and ran like a rabbit out the jail door. In less time it took for Matches to eat a drumstick, the boy was back with a tall, open bottle of RC Cola. He held it through the bars of the cell, his skinny arm well within Matches' reach.

"Here you go, Mister."

Matches took the bottle. "T'anks, kid." He returned to his bunk and resumed eating the delicious meal. After a moment, Matches realized the boy was still standing at his cell door, staring at him. He wondered if he needed to tip the boy or something.

"You want something, kid?" he asked.

"I never seen a big city Yankee criminal before," the boy replied.

"You got a name, kid?"

"My name's Opie."

"Well, run home, Opie. I t'ink I hear ya muddah callin' youse."

The boy stood his ground. "I ain't got no mother. She died when I was a baby. I got my Pa and Aunt Bee."

Matches looked at the serious green eyes staring him down. "Maybe your Pa's callin you," he suggested, not as gruffly as before.

"My Pa's the Sheriff. He's down at Goober's filling station where they got that car you stole."

Matches finished his meal, wiping the last traces of juice from the peas with the biscuit. He stood up and walked to the cell door. The boy backed up a step. Matches pushed the plate through the slot. The boy stepped forward and took the plate, replacing it carefully in the basket.

"Hey, kid," said Matches. "Here, dis is for your trouble. It's a tip." Matches held out a five dollar bill.

The boy's eyes lit up as he took the money. "A tip? Gee, thanks, Mister!" A serious look fell over his young face. "This ain't stolen money is it, Mister?"

"Nah, it's legit," Matches replied, sitting back on the bunk.

"That's swell! Thanks again, Mister, and I hope you didn't really steal that car!"

The door to the jail opened and a tall, red-haired, uniformed man stepped though it. "Opie, what you got there, boy?" he boomed.

"This big city Yankee criminal gave me five whole dollars, Pa. It ain't stolen money, though. It's legit!" the boy eagerly replied, his face beaming, displaying a missing front tooth.

"Waaal, ain't that nice, now? You run along home, Opie. Tell Aunt Bee I'll bring Otis' plate home with me after a while," the sheriff said to his child.

"Yes, Pa." The boy shoved the bill into his pocket, picked up the basket and marched out of the jail.

The sheriff approached the cell door, giving Matches a good-natured appraising look.

"I reckon you're just about on your way out of here, Mr. Malone. A young man is here to escort you back up north."

"Dat would be my kid, Robbie," Matches said evenly, although he was relieved Dick had gotten here as quickly as he could. Matches had spent as much time in picturesque rural America as he could stand.

"No, sir," the sheriff answered crisply. "The young feller who came to get you is a po-lice officer. He's come to transfer you back to... what city did that feller say? Blood Haven. Yep, that's it. He's here to transport you to Blood Haven. Mighty grim name for a town, ain't that? Not near as friendly-sounding as Mayberry." The sheriff grinned a mile wide.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**Blüdhaven, R.F.D.**

Part 2, Conclusion

By SKH

©June 2008

Rating: PG

Characters: Matches Malone, Dick Grayson, Oracle, Superlawyer

Synopsis: Officer Dick Grayson is summoned out of state to take custody of the man who stole his car -- Matches Malone!

Disclaimer: Above-mentioned characters are owned by DC Comics.

No profit is realized from creation of stories based on these characters.

Comments and feedback are welcome to

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By the time Officer Grayson arrived in Mayberry, compliments of the North Carolina Highway Patrol, it was late in the afternoon, almost close-of-business. He wasn't sure whether or not a small town law enforcement office would stay open past five o'clock. Making an official request for transportation had been Dick's best option to get there from the Raleigh airport in time, despite Bruce's demand that Matches Malone's equally reprobate son "Robbie" bail him out of jail. Besides, Dick rather liked the idea of wearing a badge and being on the free side of a cell door from his old man. Bruce should have asked to use his car.

When they arrived in Mayberry, Dick had asked the trooper to let him out at the place where his car was impounded. The trooper gave a short laugh. "It's not exactly an impound lot. In fact, I'm pretty sure this town is as far from what you're used to as you can get." Dick understood as soon as they pulled into Goober's Filling Station.

"I see what you mean," Dick grinned. "Not many 'Goobers' in Blüdhaven. A lot of mooks, skells, thugs and punks, though. I'd be happy to trade you for a few Goobers!" Dick shook the trooper's hand and got out of the cruiser.

"No thanks," the trooper laughed. "You keep 'em!" With a friendly wave to Dick and the curious throng of men standing around the gas station, the trooper drove away. Dick quickly sized up his surroundings -- the picturesque rural village, the gasoline station/auto repair shop (and apparently, official impound facility) and the group of men who stared at him as if he had just landed in a space ship.

The deputy sheriff was the standout. The guy's uniform was his primary identity, from the way he had inflated his chest when they'd driven up. The deputy swaggered over to Dick with obvious self-importance. Dick smiled politely and held out his hand.

"Officer Dick Grayson, Blüdhaven Police Department. Thanks for recovering my car."

The little deputy winced slightly at Dick's grip. "Deputy Barney Fife," he puffed. "Yep. We got your car. Got your car thief. He's cooling his heels over at the jail. My partner's keeping an eye on him." The deputy tried to appear nonchalant, although Dick suspected this was probably a huge event in the fellow's career.

A smiling man in greasy coveralls pushed past the deputy. He wiped his hand on a rag before extending it to Dick in greeting. "Hey! I'm Goober. I ain't seen a car like yours since Moon Phillips was runnin' shine over in the next county. I looked under the hood and then cranked her up - hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Dick smiled. At least someone, even a small town mechanic, appreciated his ride. "I put her together myself. She doesn't look like much, but she can outrun anything she needs to."

Goober laughed, nervous and excited. "Oh, hey, this is Floyd Lawson, he's the barber in Mayberry, and this here's Howard Sprague. He's the town clerk. And this is Emmett Clark, he fixes thangs." Dick politely greeted all the men.

"All right, all right! I hate to bust up your tea party, Goob, but this is an official investigation," Deputy Fife interrupted, clearly irritated by Goober's fawning, which drew the attention from the deputy.

"Exactly," Dick agreed, trying his best to put on a serious face. "I guess I'd better see the prisoner, now, Deputy Fife."

"I'll escort you down to the jail," said the deputy. "Yep. He's in good hands. We run a pret-ty tight little operation here in Mayberry." Deputy Fife led the way on the two-block walk to the town jail. Dick noticed that not only had all four of the other men followed right along after them, but they were immediately joined by a little red haired boy who ran up to meet them.

"Hey, Barn!" the boy chirped cheerfully.

"Hey, Ope," the deputy laconically replied.

"Is that the big city Yankee policeman that's come to take away that big city Yankee criminal?" the boy asked.

Dick stopped on the sidewalk, nearly causing a rear end collision of the pursuing townsmen. He dropped to eye level with the little boy and smiled. "Hi, I'm Officer Grayson. I'm here to take custody of the dangerous criminal in Deputy Fife's jail." Dick was clearly enjoying the experience. He couldn't wait to see the "big city Yankee criminal." The boy shook Dick's hand.

"That's my Pa's jail, he's the Sheriff. I'm Opie Taylor. Nice ta meetcha."

"Run along, Opie. This here is official business," said the deputy, who started marching toward the jail again.

"Want a ride?" Dick asked the boy. Opie nodded, and Dick swung the child onto his shoulders for the rest of the walk.

"I don't think that Yankee feller stole your car, mister... uh, Officer Grayson."

"Why's that?"

"Just a feelin'. He looked at me funny when I told him I didn't have no ma, and then he give me five whole dollars tip because I run and got him a cold drink. Least ways, I hope he ain't no real criminal."

Dick pondered the child's story as they approached the jail. He put Opie down and the child burst through the doors ahead of them. "He's here, Pa!" the small voice sounded from inside the building.

Dick scanned the building as he entered. Two desks, two jail cells, one telephone -- an ancient candlestick-style analog job. No computers on either desk. The place was curiously Spartan. The only luxury was an old oscillating electric floor fan. Dick's eyes fell on the cells, and on Matches Malone, who slowly got up off the bunk and approached the bars. Why on earth was Bruce still here? Dick wondered. He could have picked that cell lock with the match hanging from his lips if he'd wanted to. He certainly could have overpowered the scrawny deputy. But what about the sheriff?

At that moment, the sheriff, a tall, capable looking man with red hair, stepped out of the restroom. He was drying a dinner plate with a red checked cloth. The sheriff's face split into a smile. He put the plate down on the desk and wiped his hands with the cloth.

"Howdy, there! I'm Sheriff Andy Taylor. You must be Officer Grayson. The highway patrol said you were on your way to pick up Mr. Malone, here." The two law enforcement officers greeted each other pleasantly.

"And I see you met some of the townsfolk!" Andy grinned at the locals who had joined them in the jail.

"I thought my kid Robbie was gonna be springin' me from dis joint!" Malone called out.

Dick turned to the prisoner. He couldn't restrain his smirk as he took in the sight of his mentor-and-foster-dad behind bars. "He's in lockup, Mr. Malone, and unavailable at the moment. Like father, like son, I guess."

Matches took the wooden match from his mouth and flicked it at Dick, hitting him in the chest. It bounced off his badge. Dick looked at his badge, then up at Matches, arching one eyebrow.

Turning back to the sheriff, Dick explained, "I understand, though, that Mr. Malone's attorney is driving here with some papers. I hope you don't mind waiting until she arrives."

"Oh, that's no problem a-t'all!" Sheriff Taylor replied amicably. "Mr. Malone has behaved himself just fine."

Deputy Fife swaggered into the conversation. "That's right! We don't cotton to bad behavior in this jail. We nip that right in the bud. We don't have repeat offenders in this town."

"'Cept for Otis," said Goober.

"'Cept for Otis," Barney nodded. Then he shook his head angrily and sputtered, "Wait! No!"

Andy Taylor came to the rescue with, "Now, Goob, Otis just comes here to sleep it off because his wife gets mad at him when he's had a bit too much to drink. She's the only one who gets offended."

Dick nodded respectfully, maintaining a straight face. "I wish we had the same record in my city, Deputy Fife. And in Gotham City, where I grew up, there seem to be a LOT of SERIOUS REPEAT OFFENDERS." Dick raised his voice and turned illustratively toward Matches.

Matches Malone paced the cell slowly and glared at the police officer.

"I'm curious, Sheriff Taylor. How did you manage to apprehend Mr. Malone?" Dick asked.

"Me and Barn was on our way back from Mount Pilot this morning when we came up behind your car. I says to Barney, 'W'aal, they's only two thangs you do 'round these parts with a car all souped up like this hyear one, and that's runnin' shine or runnin cigarettes.' And it was mighty suspicious seein' Yankee tags on the car. We radioed the license number to the highway patrol and got the stolen vehicle report."

Barney Fife uttered a smug chuckle. "Of course, I had my eye on him right from the start, didn't I' Andy? Yup! I was the one who noticed the tags, y'know. Eyes like an eagle! Yessir, that's what they say about me! Eyes like an eagle!"

"Ol' Eagle Eye Barney," cooed Floyd the barber.

Matches Malone rolled his eyes and breathed an audible sigh. He paced to the back of his cell, shaking his head. He spun on his heels and returned to the cell door. "Hey, cop! Wanna open dis door? I need ta use da facilities!" Malone barked.

Dick nodded to Deputy Fife, who took the ring of keys off the wall and opened the door.

"No funny business, Mister," Fife warned. Malone turned and gave the little man a Bat-intense glare. Fife's eyes grew to the size of dinner plates.

"I'll watch him, Deputy," Dick offered, grabbing Matches by the arm and steering him toward the hallway where the restroom was located.

"What attorney?" Bruce demanded quietly.

"Relax, Babs and I are working an angle. We needed a local attorney and we only know one in North Carolina, so --"

Bruce stopped and stared at Dick. "The SHARK? You called the Shark?"

Dick glanced at the small crowd behind them. He whispered, "She's working on our side this time. Now behave yourself until she gets here!" Dick pushed Bruce into the bathroom and shut the door.

When Matches Malone had been safely returned to his cell, Dick approached Sheriff Taylor. "Could I speak to you alone for a second, Sheriff?"

Taylor gave a quick glance around his jail. While it was perfectly normal for civilian visitors and even family to stop by, he realized it was probably a bit more relaxed than this city cop was used to. "Of course. And please call me Andy, ever-body does."

They stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the jail. The sun was beginning to set, and the little town was painted in the warm colors. Dick looked down the road that led in and out of Mayberry, hoping to see a particular car coming.

"This shore is a peaceful town," Andy observed with satisfaction. "It's a shame ever-body cain't live in a place this nice." He turned to Dick. "Mr. Malone ain't exactly a stranger to you, is he son? Y'all seem like you know each other purty good."

Dick was momentarily caught off guard. He knew he'd had a difficult time keeping a straight face about the whole matter, but he didn't think he'd broadcast their familiarity that blatantly. "I, uh... you're absolutely right, Andy," Dick admitted. "I've known Mr. Malone for a few years. And, uh, actually... he did take my car without asking, but he didn't really steal it. I didn't know that he was the one who had taken it when I filed the report early this morning."

"Is he down here breaking the law, son?" the sheriff asked pointedly.

Dick slowly shook his head. "No, sir. Mr. Malone is an undercover operative working for a friend of mine in Gotham City. My friend is in law enforcement, but he sort of works outside the official boundaries. He told Mr. Malone to take my car because it would sort of fit in with the cigarette bootlegging case he's working on. The attorney who's coming has got the paperwork signed by a judge that will clear and release Mr. Malone from custody.

Sheriff Taylor nodded contemplatively. "And is his son really on the wrong side of the law?"

Dick smiled. "Mr. Malone's son is also a freelance undercover operator. He just couldn't be in two places at once today."

Sheriff Taylor gave Dick a shrewdly scrutinizing look. And then his expression softened into the broad smile again. He looked back out over his town. "Yes sir, Mayberry is a right nice place to live."

"I hope it always stays that way, Andy," Dick agreed, gazing at the quiet little burg.

...

"I said excuse me!"

Both men turned their heads toward the voice. A red-haired woman in a smart navy blue suit stood next to a red Camaro.

"I hate to disturb your daydreaming, gentlemen, but I've been on the road for three hours. I have some papers for that cop right there." She walked up and handed the documents to Dick, her green eyes smiling. "Let's get this done fast, cowboy. You know I don't like to drive after dark." Dick gestured toward the jailhouse door, and the woman strode inside.

Inside the Mayberry jail, introductions were made all around. Sheriff Taylor reviewed the court documents that made Matches Malone a free man. Deputy Fife, hands trembling, unlocked the cell door and released Malone, who shot him another frightening glare.

"Miss Edwards," said Dick as he took the attorney's hand in his. "It's always a pleasure to see you, Counselor." He kissed her hand chivalrously. The Mayberry throng murmured and stepped a little closer to the couple.

Miss Edwards smiled sweetly, letting her hand linger in Dick's possession. "Got a new cat, blue-eyes. Named him after you."

"You got a cat named Officer?" Goober interrupted.

The curious Mayberryites scattered when Matches Malone approached the attorney. "I suppose I should say thank you," Malone said gruffly.

"I'm just the runner today...'Matches'... but rest assured. The invoice is already in the mail. This one's paying half the mortgage on my new office building."

Malone snorted and walked away like a vampire from a cross. Even though she was working for him this time, she was still the one lawyer in the country he was intimidated by.

"You headed back home?" Dick asked Miss Edwards.

"No, I've got a reservation at a bed and breakfast just down the road," she replied. "You know it gives me the willies to be out after dark."

Dick laughed and nodded. "I knew there was a reason we weren't dating."

"Two reasons, Junior. One, that other red-head of yours would hack my credit rating into the cellar, and two, I've found me a real cowboy. I've been lassoed and saddled." Edwards held up her left hand, displaying an impressive stone on the third finger.

Dick whistled, stepped back and ran a hand through his hair. "We'll always have Athens, I guess," he smiled.

"Hey Cop! You my ride back to Gotham?" Matches Malone bellowed.

"I am indeed, Mr. Malone," Dick replied. I'm here to serve and protect, and to transport bums like you across country. Shall we make an exit?"

"Yesterday would be great, kid."

They were intercepted at the door by Opie. "Bye, Mister!" the boy said to Malone. "I'm really glad you're not a criminal. It was sure nice ta meetcha!"

"Sure 'ting, squirt. Youse better be a good boy for your pop," said the big man. "If I hear any different, I'm gonna hafta come back here and have a few words wit you."

While Dick was saying goodbye to everyone, Matches told the sheriff, "Youse got a great boy there."

Sheriff Taylor gave Malone a slap on the back. "Likewise! Y'all come back and have a visit one of these days. We'll all go fishin'!" Taylor winked and broadcast his big friendly smile.

Once they were out the door, Matches Malone hurried to Dick's car. "Let's get out of here and step on it. This place gives me the creeps!" he complained.

Dick just laughed and put the magnetic mount emergency light on the top of his car. In no time they were on a northbound highway. Dick tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel, and in a moment he started singing:

"Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for you, Bad Boys, Bad -- OW!!"

Bruce Wayne popped his son hard across the back of the head. As Dick rubbed his head, Bruce leaned forward, tuned the radio to a classical station and sat back for the ride home.

Fin


End file.
